Monday, April 03, 2017

The Spoilsport

It was the best of times. I had never had it so good. Our
property had recovered from my father’s foolish gift to my brother, and
everything was thriving. We had more sheep, more cattle, more acres of land
than ever before (because a prudent man re-invests by buying more good farmland
with his profits, and the first thing I did when we could afford it was buy
back the fields my father had sold to raise the money for my brother’s share of
the inheritance – how I resented that!), and we were looking forward to
record-breaking crops. True, we had heard rumours of a famine in faraway lands,
but what was that to us? We can’t be responsible for other people’s misfortunes,
if they squander their surplus in good years and keep nothing for the lean
ones, well, they are to blame for their own troubles. A man must make his own
wealth by his own hard work, or so I have always believed. And I certainly
worked hard. From morning to night I was bustling about, organising this and
fixing that, making sure none of our hired hands shirked in their labours. And
in the busy periods I have never been above rolling up my sleeves and doing the
work myself. Hard work is how a man earns respect in this world, and if you
aren’t prepared to work you deserve to go without.

My father left more and more of the work to me, and that
suited me fine. He would spend so much time gazing down the road as if he were
expecting my brother to suddenly materialise on the road in front of him. Why,
I don’t know, but old men have their fancies, and he must surely realise that I
was worth a dozen of that idle scapegrace. A prosperous old age, and no lack of
anything he might reasonably desire, that was my gift to him. I was a son any
man could be proud of.

Then, one day, when the sun burned like a white flame, and
the dust on the road was chokingly thick, my brother re-appeared. I was out in
the fields, of course, and was only told later what had happened. My father saw
him while he was still a long way off, and throwing aside every last vestige of
the dignity belonging to our family, went running down the road to meet him.
Only later did I learn that my brother had come back as a beggar and suppliant,
as he should, in his disgrace, but my father would have none of it. Instead of
sending him to work in the fields and sleep in the stables, he called for his
robe and ring, and for the fatted calf to be killed for a feast of rejoicing.

It is beyond my understanding. Can’t he see that things were
better without my brother? Can’t he see that my brother shouldn’t be rewarded
for his behaviour? What will that teach him? The lazy boy has probably spent
all his money on loose women and loaded dice. He is a disgrace! Somebody said, “look
how much he loves him!” I don’t understand. He has done nothing to earn my
father’s love! One bitter question rises in my throat like bile: whare is the
fatted calf for me?

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About Me

Mother of two grown up kids,and very long time married, after many years as a full-time mum, then a part-time theological student I'm now trying to be useful in my local church whilst working out what the next step is.I'm passionate about Jesus, treasure the people in my life and dream of being a preacher. I'm a would-be poet, a slightly eccentric cook, and an INFP (which must explain something).
And I'm a pickle: a weird shaped lump of something-or-other, a bit salty, a bit sweet, definitely an acquired taste, preserved by the grace of God and trying to add a bit of flavour to the blandness of modern life.